The Music Box (4 page)

The ten or twelve footmen, whom Bryce recognized from their frantic efforts when he’d arrived, wore red uniforms with gleaming buttons. One of them, a stout man of middle years, kept frowning at a spot on his chest where a button was missing, muttering something unintelligible under his breath as he did. And another, a gaunt fellow with thinning gray hair, kept squinting in Bryce’s direction, pausing occasionally to grope in his pockets and mumble about his missing spectacles.

The sturdy woman standing at the head of the female servants was clearly the housekeeper. She had wiry hair—strands of which stuck out of her bun like small, broken twigs—and a no-nonsense demeanor that reminded Bryce of a British general. Twice she whipped about to reprimand a round-faced maid in the rear who kept tripping on the Oriental rug and toppling forward onto an elderly maid just in front of her. The elderly maid looked oblivious to the fact that she was being flung about, smiling sweetly and chatting with the gnarled and wrinkled maid beside her, who Bryce was certain couldn’t remain upright without benefit of the walking stick-upon which she leaned.

Behind the maids came the serving girls, most of whom were painfully skinny and pale, two of whom had oddly vacant looks in their eyes, as if they weren’t quite certain where they were and why.

In the rear, three men stood just inside the door: to the far left, a lanky fellow whose wheat-colored hair and spindly build made him look for all the world like a straw of hay and who clutched a garden shovel tightly in his hands; to the right, a leathery old chap who winced each time he shifted his weight; and between them, chatting incessantly first to the gardener then to the elderly servant, neither of whom replied, stood a ruddy-faced man with a wide mouth and an insufficient number of teeth, clad in an improperly buttoned driver’s uniform.

Bryce had never seen such an unusual collection of servants in all his life.

“Now then, let’s all settle down,” Hermione began, clapping her hands, her tone gentle and commanding all at once.

Instant silence settled over the room.

“I’d like you all to meet …”

The library door jolted open, and rustling layers of green muslin tumbled in. “Forgive me,” the girl named Gaby proclaimed, gazing anxiously about. “I’m late, aren’t I?”

Hermione had no chance to respond.

“Miss Gaby—at last!” The awkward maid who’d been tripping over the Oriental rug stumbled forward, her round face lined with worry. “By now I’m sure you discovered the shattered pieces that are all that’s left of that lovely vase you kept on your nightstand. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for breaking it. You see, I was rewinding your music box when the edge of it accidentally bumped against the vase. I tried to save it, but I couldn’t catch it in time and—”

“Marion,” Gaby interrupted, clasping the distraught maid’s hands and soothing her with the kind of wisdom and insight Bryce seldom beheld, much less perceived in one so young. “You did absolutely the right thing. In order to rescue the vase, you would have needed two hands and your full attention. And where would that have left my music box? I shudder to think. Given a choice between the two—you know very well where my heart lies. As always, you recognized precisely what to do. Your quick thinking saved my greatest treasure. And your honesty in relaying the truth to me proves yet again what a remarkable person you are.”

The maid’s eyes filled with grateful tears. “I’m so glad you feel that way.”

“I do.” Gaby gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Besides, that vase was big and unwieldy and took up far too much of my nightstand. Now my music box can stand alone, as it should.”

“Miss Gaby?” The gnarled, elderly maid captured her attention, her tone as tentative as her stance. “Did you happen to have a chance—”

“I received confirmation this morning, Dora. Your new walking stick is on its way. It will be delivered tomorrow afternoon. According to the merchant who crafted it, it’s twice as sturdy as the one you’ve been using.” Gaby gestured toward Dora’s cane—which, so far as Bryce could see, appeared to be in perfect condition.

“Wonderful.” A smile softened the maid’s wrinkled face. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Gaby’s gaze fell on the squinting footman, who was still groping through his coat pockets and muttering. “Bowrick, your spectacles are way down at the bottom of your left pocket,” she supplied helpfully. “There you go—you’ve got them.”

With a warm nod in his direction, she weaved her way through the crowd, hurrying forward to where her aunt stood. “I apologize for being late, Aunt Hermione,” she resumed, a worried pucker reforming between her brows. “ ʼTis just all these petticoats …” She broke off, blushing. “In any case, I’m here.”

“Splendid, my dear.” Hermione seemed not at all troubled by the unconventional entrance or the scandalous mention of undergarments. “Please.” She beckoned the girl closer. “Come here. Before you dash out of the manor to go scampering through the woods with your animals, I’d like you to meet Bryce. Bryce, this is my niece, Gabrielle Denning. Gaby…Bryce Lyndley”—the barest heartbeat of a pause—“my dear friend and business adviser.”

Bryce stepped forward to acknowledge the introduction, noting that the enchanting young woman before him bore little resemblance to the rumpled girl he’d met an hour ago—with the exception of her vitality and those bottomless cornflower-blue eyes. Her chestnut hair, no longer tousled, was now neatly arranged in shining curls that cascaded down her back, and her face, scrubbed free of smudges, was exquisitely delicate and incredibly lovely.

“Gabrielle,” he addressed her, fully intending to make believe their earlier meeting had never occurred. “ ʼTis a pleasure.” Smiling politely, he brought her fingers to his lips.

Gaby inclined her head, her eyes veiled with uncertainty. “Mr. Lyndley and I have met, Aunt Hermione,” she blurted. “I never intended for it to happen. I was truly going to wait this time, I promise. But you see, Crumpet dashed in front of Mr. Lyndley’s phaeton, and I had no choice—”

“It’s all right, Gaby,” Hermione interjected. “Running into someone can be described only as an accident of fate, not a formal presentation. Thus, we’ll consider this to be the first time you and Bryce have met.”

“Oh, thank you,” Gaby breathed, her entire face lighting up. “In that case, I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Lyndley. And I apologize for being late.”

A grin tugged at Bryce’s lips. “Think nothing of it. However, if you’d like, I could lend you a pocket watch. It might help both you and Crumpet.”

Gaby dissolved into spontaneous laughter. “That would be greatly appreciated—by both of us.”

From the corner of his eye, Bryce saw one of the youngsters, a little girl with a solemn expression, inch forward, tugging on Chaunce’s sleeve until the butler leaned over, after which she cupped her hand over his ear and whispered something into it.

“Ah, thank you, Lily. I’m sure Miss Gaby will be quite relieved.” He straightened, looking over at Gaby. “It seems Lily came upon Crumpet during her morning stroll. He had invaded the garden yet again.”

“What’d he eat this time?” the hay-straw fellow piped up from the rear, sounding more resigned than angry. “Just tell me, so I’ll know where my shovel and I will be spendin’ the afternoon.”

“Actually, your garden is intact, Wilson,” Chaunce assured him. “As good fortune would have it, Lily arrived just moments after Crumpet. She thwarted his intended eating binge, scooped him up, and took him to her room, where he is currently awaiting punishment.”

“Good girl, Lily,” Wilson praised. “Hear that?” he murmured to his shovel. “Thanks to Lily’s quick thinkin’, we can work on that section of primroses, just like we planned.”

“Oh, Lily, you’re wonderful! Thank you.” Evidently unperturbed by Wilson’s chat with an inanimate object, Gaby rushed over and hugged the little girl, whose solemn face erupted into a heartwarming—and Bryce suspected rare—smile. “I was frantic about Crumpet’s whereabouts, especially since I hadn’t time to search all his favorite hiding places. And even if I’d had the time, I’d never have thought to look in the garden, not after he was banished from it last week. How clever of you to find him!”

“Shall I bring him to you?” the child asked in a whisper.

“I have a better idea. After we’ve all met Mr. Lyndley, you and I can go to your chambers and deal with him together.”

“New curtains will have to be ordered,” Chaunce said with a tolerant sigh. “Master Crumpet so likes the frilled curtains in Lily’s room—I suspect that, by now, they’re quite ragged at the edges.”

“I suspect you’re right, Chaunce.” Gaby grinned. “Sometimes I think Crumpet is part goat. In any case, fear not. I myself shall take Lily to the village and select material for her new curtains. We’ll sew them together. How would that be, Lily?” She gazed lovingly down at the child.

A vigorous nod was her reply.

“Excellent.” Gaby cast another rueful glance at Hermione. “I’ve disrupted your introductions again, haven’t I?”

“To the contrary, you’ve made them that much more memorable,” Hermione countered. “You’ve helped show Mr. Lyndley precisely what makes our family so special.” She cleared her throat. “Bryce, the charming young lady beside Gaby who rescued Crumpet from an even sterner punishment is Lily.”

“Hello, Lily,” Bryce responded.

Lily dropped her gaze, scraping her shoe along the rug, obviously uncomfortable at being the center of attention.

“Lily is a bit shy,” Hermione continued, “as is her sister, Jane, the little moppet over there.” She pointed at a blond child whose legs were so reed-thin that Bryce wondered how they could support her. “Lily is seven, Jane six. They, along with the boys—Peter, Henry, and Charles—help Gaby take care of her animals—or rather, her menagerie. Gaby has dozens of pets, and they’re all mischief-makers, just like Crumpet.” Hermione gestured the boys forward. “Come, boys. Say hello to Mr. Lyndley.”

Henry and Charles, two sturdy boys with dark hair and eyes, came forward with only a tad more ease than the girls, murmuring their how-do-you-do’s as quick as a wink, then rushing back to their places, pausing only to toss Gaby a grin. Peter, the lad who’d been leaning against the wall, followed after, limping forward and dragging his right leg in his wake. He halted at the settee, studying Bryce’s face with a clear, intelligent gaze. “How do you do?” he said aloud.

“Very well.” Bryce shook the boy’s hand, his chest tight with compassion.

“Peter is Cook’s son,” Hermione explained. “When I hired Cook, I was blessed to get him as well.”

“I’m extremely pleased to meet you, Peter,” Bryce told the lad. “You
and
Henry, Charles, Jane, and Lily. Gabrielle is lucky to have five such capable helpers to assist her with her pets.”

“You needn’t pretend,” Peter inserted calmly. “I know I’m not nearly as capable as the others. I also know why: it’s because I’m lame. But that’s okay. I do the best I can. The truth is, my lameness makes other people more uncomfortable than it makes me.”

“I wasn’t pretending. Yes, I can see your leg gives you some trouble. But I can also see that you have a keen mind and a generous heart. Not to mention the fact that you’re straightforward and honest. Those traits, Peter, will more than make up for a reluctant limb.”

Interest flickered in Peter’s eyes. “How do you know I’m all those things?”

“Because part of my job is figuring out people’s natures when I meet them. And, like you, I’m very good at my job.”

“Lady Nevon says you’re a barrister.”

“That’s true.”

“It will be harder for me when my time comes,” Peter stated candidly. “I’ll have to take exams—and pass them. You probably became a barrister before that rule started. Not that it would have mattered. You would have passed those exams without even trying. Lady Nevon says you’re the smartest barrister in England.”

Bryce blinked, startled by the lad’s implication, as well as by the realization of just how quick his mind was. “Are you saying you want to become a barrister, Peter?”

“Yes, sir. I know I’m not a nobleman—”

“Neither am I,” Bryce interrupted. He squatted down, meeting the lad’s gaze head-on. “How old are you, Peter?”

“Nine.”

“Nine.” Bryce shook his head in amazement. “Peter, I have a distinct feeling that you are not only going to become a barrister but that, in twenty years or so, you’re going to unseat me in Lady Nevon’s estimation as the smartest barrister in England. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

Pride emanated from every inch of Peters frame. “Thank you, sir.” He hesitated. “Is it true you have legal texts in your chambers?”

“From what I understand, yes. Would you like to see them?”

“May I?” It was as if the lad had been promised the world. “I know I won’t be able to read many of the words, but just looking at them would be enough.”

“Consider it done.” Bryce glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Why don’t we check with your mother, then set a time after lunch. How would that be?”

“Splendid, sir.”

Bryce looked past Peter, searching the crowd until he spied Cook. He was stunned to see tears gathered in her eyes. “Is that acceptable?” he asked.

“You’re very kind, Mr. Lyndley. Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome Mrs. …” He paused in question.

“Hayzeldenton,” the buxom woman supplied, dashing the moisture from her eyes and giving Bryce a warm smile. “Which is far too long and much too difficult to pronounce. So please call me Cook. Everyone at Nevon Manor does.” She sank into a curtsy, her bowed head disappearing into the pillow of her own bosom. “I’m honored to meet you, sir,” she declared as she rose.

“I’m pleased to meet you as well, Cook.” Bryce was relieved to see that she was still breathing.

“Excellent. Now you’ve met Cook,” Hermione said with a nod of approval. “Mrs. Gordon?” She gestured toward the housekeeper. “It’s your turn.”

The stout woman with the twigs for hair marched forward. “How do you do, Mr. Lyndley?” she barked. “I trust your shoes are clean.”

Bryce blinked. “Pardon me?”

“Mrs. Gordon keeps an immaculate house,” Hermione supplied. “She believes in cleanliness …”